


our temporary brilliance (turns to ash)

by solitariusvirtus



Series: the quill is mightier [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25020400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Aelinor Penrose embraces an odd marriage, to say the least, so that she might escape her current circumstances. She thinks safety is enough; it never is though. Once safe her heart settles upon yet another goal, and this one she fears she cannot achieve - Lord Brynden Rivers is fascinating beyond belief, the only man to make her sigh with longing and thoroughly untouchable. She is wedded and his heart is given elsewhere.AU! Daughter of a lesser son, Aelinor is not meant for crowns, yet still finds one thrust upon her. She gives up what little hope ever beat in her breast, only for her husband to put in her path the greatest of her desires.sister-fic tolove your flaws (and live for your mistakes)
Relationships: Aelinor Penrose/Brynden "Bloodraven" Rivers
Series: the quill is mightier [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811719
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. i

**_199 AC_ **

Her knees scream with the ache of a thousand jabbing pins striking delicate flesh. Most maidens pray to the Mother for mercy or the Maiden for protection. Aelinor is praying to the Warrior. Nay, she does not foresee herself taking up sword or spear. She prays for strength, nonetheless, as her body, tethered only by a thin threadbare string, threatens to collapse. She isn’t quite certain whether she shivers or the world itself is rocked by an infinitesimal divine quiver. Her chest heaves. She is begging in earnest now; they have been kneeling for since dawn, her flesh is sure to be bruised. She weaves to and fro before catching herself and straightening her back. 

After what seems like an interminably long wait, the Princess finally returns. “Aelinor, Laena, rise.” She obeys with great difficulty, tears gathering in her eyes as the pain flares with every small gain. Laena is somewhat slower to follow. “I have had a letter from King’s Landing. We are to entertain His Grace, Prince Aerys during the coming turns.” Cogs turn fast in Aelinor brain at those words. Only that the Princess is already dismissing Laena, saying something about her lady mother having written as well. As excuses go, it is rather transparent. Left alone with Daenerys, Aelinor lowers her gaze.

“Tell me,” the woman begins, reaching out to pour herself some wine, “have you understood now?” She hesitates as those bright eyes fix upon her.

She is no lesser for lying, Aelinor tells herself. “Aye, Your Grace.”

A cold smile appears on the Princess’ face. “I might have believed you, were it not for those eyes of yours. They say too much.” Would that they said even more, Aelinor thinks, directing her gaze to the ground. “In any event, your sire has agreed, as I said he would. Aren’t you pleased, Aelinor?”

She thinks with some dread upon what that means. She cannot wed in Sunspear, to forever be under her kin’s thumb. She will not. Her stomach turns. “Very pleased, Your Grace.” This time, she is careful not to meet the woman’s gaze.


	2. ii

Aelinor peers from beneath lower lashes at Ser Mors; he cuts a striking figure. Slightly tanned from the harsh Dornish sun and his travel, bearing himself proudly, he is quite something. Enough to make her pulse quicken, for she is not made of stone, and certainly enough to have her heart gallop. A pity ‘tis nowhere near enough to make her forget he is his sire’s secondborn and that his sister, heir to the Tor, is wedded and has two hale little brats forever bent on mischief. When he smiles as he does now, she almost feels at ease. He is not as shy of her as she is of him, but nevertheless, it seems her suitor will not push her. A small mercy, Aelinor thinks, accepting the peeled blood-orange pieces from his hand.

Bitter-sweet, the blood of her ruby orange flows. She chews carefully, listening to Ser Mors. “Court holds far more interesting sights,” the man is saying. “And a wider variety of folk to observe. Maris is happy at home, with her children. I always thanked the Seven for having been born a lesser son.” Forcing herself to smile at the words, Aelinor wonders how soon she may escape. The Princess, without doubt, has put some of the servants to observing the interaction.

A brief silence ensues, during which, feeling the weight of the knight’s stare, Aelinor cannot help but look up. “You speak naught of yourself, lady. A valiant trick, I grant you, but I would know some of your story.” 

“What interest can a well-travelled man have in the affairs of one such as myself. I say little for there is little I can say.” If ‘tis not precisely honest, then at least it is a kind response.

“Shall I show you the world then, my lady; might be you shall grant me a story then.” The words linger between them, pregnant with possibility. Her eyes are drawn to his golden quill upon its verdant field.

“Might be, ser,” she murmurs, voice low. 


End file.
